


Bricolage

by Princess of Geeks (Princess)



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Bondage, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-13
Updated: 2010-03-13
Packaged: 2017-10-07 23:12:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess/pseuds/Princess%20of%20Geeks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unauthorized sequel to Paian's "Pars Pro Toto." Jack has offered to meet Daniel's sexual needs; Daniel has accepted his offer. This is the second encounter they have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bricolage

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Pars Pro Toto](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18835) by [Paian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paian/pseuds/Paian). 



Daniel pretended to be asleep when Jack's invisible, silent, internal alarm clock went off. Jack's breathing hitched and he turned abruptly as he woke. The jostling, slight as it was, woke Daniel; after sleeping alone for so long, adjusting to someone in the bed with him had been difficult. In fact, the night before, he'd lain awake a long time, and then slept only lightly (before and after his foray to destroy the photos and the disk), despite the shattering release Jack had given him.

He had one of those internal clocks, too, and by consulting it, and noting the quality of the grey coming under the curtains, he learned it was well before dawn, about 5:30.

Jack, once awake, lay still, his breathing even. He was so warm. Daniel, as he lay on his side, facing the door of the bedroom, could feel Jack's body heat radiating against his back, and his own skin kept the impression of Jack's where Jack had pressed against him in sleep, just as Daniel's ears kept the impression of that hitch and almost-cough in Jack's breathing, even though the noise had happened before Daniel was really awake.

Daniel lay still, too -- part the spell of sleep (he'd always been slower to awaken than Jack) and part avoidance of conversation.

He assumed that Jack would get up and slip away to his own home, now, well before dawn. Daniel could not follow this assumption back to its premise and analyze whether he made this prediction based on Jack's assumed need for secrecy, or Jack's own likely desire for avoidance, perhaps a mirror of Daniel's own, or what, exactly. He didn't know if Jack had taken pains to conceal his visit the evening before, or not. He hadn't checked to see what Jack was driving, or where he was parked, after their conversation about the surveillance photos and Daniel's prostitution habit had taken a turn for the weird and moved into the bedroom.

Daniel lay quietly, and listened to Jack breathe, and waited for him to leave.

Sure enough, after a couple of minutes, Jack carefully, slowly, eased from the bed, and there was a faint rustling, the clink of a belt buckle, as he scooped up his clothing from where he'd left it on a chair the night before. He'd folded his clothes and carefully placed them, and then he'd fucked Daniel, there, standing there, up against the dresser. He'd taken a chainsaw to the piers that shored up Daniel's mental health, and built, moment by moment, in their place, this fragile, living thing, this gossamer, nighttime creation of breath and warmth and touch. Daniel squeezed his eyes shut a little harder and thought about his breathing.

He couldn't hear Jack's footsteps, couldn't hear if he walked purposefully, without looking back, into the front room, or if he hesitated in the bedroom door and gazed longingly or regretfully at the back of Daniel's head.

He heard nothing until he heard the snick of the door closing.

He listened for a distant roar of the truck engine, four floors down. But after the front door closed, he heard nothing at all.

Listening, he went back to sleep.

His own familiar, physically real alarm clock, there on the nightstand beside his glasses, went off at seven. Again, Daniel lay there, eyes open this time, watching the light on the ceiling and listening to the downtown traffic.

It might have all been a dream, except for the squatty white tube of his KY Jelly, sitting in the exact center of the newly scratched dresser-top.

He showered, threw on some clothes, went to work. They'd have breakfast ready in the commissary. And to tide him over, they always had coffee at QuikMart.

^^^

At the end of a workday, after some nights off world and some nights in quarters, it wasn't hard at all to watch for Jack's exit, and to trail Jack out, up the elevators, and along the tunnel. They were both parked in the first lot. Jack, of course, always parked there, and Daniel had a schedule this month in which his work week began on Sunday, so it had been easy to snag a close spot.

Daniel had felt words banging at his lips for days; words intended to be said to Jack. He wasn't quite sure what they were. He had not examined them, had not forced them to take shape at all, through one easy mission, one hard one, and three days of research. Now, SG-1 had a new offworld scheduled in forty-eight hours. So, for whatever unexamined reason, now was a good time to catch up to Jack. A weeknight, walking shoulder to shoulder across a parking lot. He let the words come.

"So," he said, at Jack's elbow, striding next to him under the cloudless sunset, Venus already rising, and Jack didn't act startled or even look at him, "when I get an itch, you scratch it? Is that how this goes?"

"Works for me."

Daniel paced him, until they were standing beside Jack's truck in the VIP row. Jack still didn't look at him. He'd unlocked his door with the remote, but he stood there, frowning, examining his key fob as if there were something missing from it.

Daniel almost said, 'Your place or mine,' but he bit back the words. What they'd already risked, once, vividly, at his place, was unconscionably dangerous, more for Jack than for him.

He shied away from cataloguing the risks in any specific way. There were external risks and internal risks. Objective risks and intangible, psychological risks. He shied away, as well, from bringing the memories of that night into focus again. But they hovered, large and overwhelming and distracting. He shifted his feet, realizing his dick was trying to get hard. He looked at the orange sky, looked at Jack, and found that Jack, finally, was looking at him.

Jack raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. When Daniel didn't either, Jack got into his truck.

Daniel watched him back carefully out of his spot, sunglasses on.

Daniel turned on his heel and crossed the short distance to his car. Jack was, presumably, driving home. Daniel followed.

Daniel debated hiding his car somewhere in Jack's neighborhood, debated ditching the car early and walking to Jack's from blocks away, debated ditching the car and getting a cab. The only thing he didn't debate was the idea of abandoning his tailing of Jack and heading home. He didn't think about anything except transportation logistics. He did check for surveillance. He imagined Jack was, as well.

He eased into Jack's driveway as the garage door was closing over the tailgate of Jack's truck. Jack didn't wait for him. He kept going; up the walk, up the steps to the tiny back deck, into the kitchen door. The house was unlocked, Daniel noted absently. He got out of his car. His keys jingled as he shoved them into his pocket. He adjusted his back pack on his shoulder. The deck steps had a hollow sound he'd never noticed before. Inside, he turned the deadbolt, locking them in.

Jack was flipping on lights as he went through the house. He'd passed the kitchen table, gone on past the bar and hung his keys on the hook on the kitchen wall, just to the left of the door that led to the dining room. He disappeared into the hall. Daniel wondered if he were locking the front door.

Then he returned to the kitchen and looked at Daniel, who had stopped in the middle of the floor, turning slowly, as if he'd never seen the place before.

"Coffee?" Jack said. "Or do you want some dinner?" He started to fold his arms, aborted that motion, aborted again when he started to put his hands behind his back, going for parade rest, and finally, leaned a fist against the door jamb. It was the only sign of unease he'd demonstrated.

Daniel smiled. He glanced at his shoes.

"No," he said. "Thank you. I'll just--" and he slid the backpack off his shoulder and indicated it with an apologetic shrug. Two could play at this game. If Jack wanted to pretend nothing was going on....

As he brushed past Jack, his thoughts nattered away -- Jack, the king of avoidance; Jack, with his calm facade. It wasn't until he was again in the bedroom doorway, leaving the guest room, having stowed his pack and his shoes in there, as if this was some kind of low-intensity "Daniel crashes here" kind of an event, surreal, that he stopped, suddenly gut punched by the memories. Blasted by reality. By what Jack had agreed to in the parking lot today, just now. By what Jack had proposed. Earlier. Perhaps his sudden grasp of the situation was triggered by the fact that he was in Jack's house, which was a rare treat, and which brought up all the subliminal cues of scent and color, the illusory longing for comfort, for closeness. It all brought Daniel up short. What had he done? What was he about to do?

Daniel closed his eyes. He could still feel it -- feel the memory of Jack's hands, moving of their own accord to hold, to protect, as Jack pressed against his naked back, clutched him close and came inside him -- _came inside him_ \-- Jack's love and care and concern expressed nonverbally in that moment despite his iron self-control and despite his explicitly stated intent that this would be, had to be, all about Daniel, Daniel's needs, Daniel's _issues_.

Daniel leaned on the bedroom doorframe, staggered, shaken.

What the fuck was he doing here? What was he thinking?

He walked out into the hall, stupidly surprised to meet Jack there, surprised that Jack was not in the kitchen, not making coffee. Jack was there in the hall, having followed Daniel, and he was looking puzzled, jacketless, his brow knit, his shirt half unbuttoned.

Jack stopped -- stopped walking, stood there with one hand paused on his shirt front. And waited. Waited for Daniel to call this, waited for Daniel.

Waited to see what Daniel wanted. Needed.

Shame washed over Daniel, bringing heat to his cheeks, making him retreat one step and fold his own arms.

He looked up, after a moment, over his glasses, and Jack was still poised, still waiting, but his face had become a mask of neutrality.

More words sprang to Daniel's lips. But he didn't say them. Instead he closed the distance and grabbed Jack, one hand behind his head, one hand splayed at his spine, and he kissed, a collision of warmth. Kissed, though they hadn't done that in Daniel's bedroom, in Daniel's bed.

They'd done everything but that.

Jack loved him. Loved him.

Impossible. True.

_Sorry, sorry, why do you have to be dragged into this?_

Not fair. Not right.

God.

Why would you do this for me? Why?

He knew why. Jack had told him. Jack had warned him it might be a dealbreaker.

_I don't deserve you. Don't deserve this._

Jack wasn't kissing him back. Jack, surprised and, for once, caught off guard, had absorbed what he was doing, and had, instead of responding with his mouth, had wrapped him up tight and tilted his own head away, not letting Daniel have his mouth, but Daniel wanted it, wanted more, wanted more than just that one fleeting smear of warmth and taste, and Jack was pressing the side of his head against the side of Daniel's and making a noise, a murmuring noise like "Mm."

Daniel, thwarted, still bathed in hot shame, heat that was quickly changing shape and character, gathering to itself a new set of cues, a new set of tastes and textures and feelings, pressed his mouth to Jack's neck and leaned in, pressed in.

His heart was hammering. He imagined he could hear Jack's, too, beating hard, out of synch with his own. He could feel Jack's pulse against his lips.

Gathering arousal, gathering warmth and hardness.

_God. Jack. _

Jack was saying, and it took a moment for Daniel's speech-processing center to kick in, "So, itch to scratch tonight?"

Daniel pressed the flat of his tongue against Jack's skin. Jack shivered. Daniel was ruined. Ruined for anything and anyone else, ever -- that's how it had seemed to him that first time, when he'd noticed he could never go back now, never back out. He couldn't do what he used to do. It was true. He was Jack's now, only and always Jack's.

"Yes," he managed to blurt, inadequate sibilant syllable. There was more he should say. He should apologize, explain, regroup, plan something.

But Jack understood. Jack steered him, stumbling, down the hall, to the bed in the master suite. Jack nuzzled his cheek and pulled his dress shirt out of his waistband, and Daniel got his weight centered over his knees and took back control, in order to peel his shirts up and off.

So Jack stepped back, undressing quickly himself and tossing his clothes on a chair, as Daniel finished stripping and then backed up to lie on the bed and put his glasses on the nightstand.

The light came down the hall, a dim glow, making Jack just visible.

Daniel got up on an elbow and opened a drawer. He smiled. New in the box, condoms and Astroglide both.

"Acme 'I'm So Gay' Butt Grease," Daniel said, grinning.

Jack didn't grin. He was half erect already, and he sat on the bed at Daniel's knees, and waited. He ran the back of his hand over his mouth. Daniel let go of the drawer, leaving it open, and scooted over. Jack lay down. Jack turned toward him.

"So," Daniel said, hysteria bubbling in him and turning to humor.

"So," Jack said, unsmiling, and put a hand on his shoulder.

They waited. Daniel's face turned serious as his wild mood ebbed as abruptly as it had appeared. Here he was, in Jack's house, in Jack's bed. It was still impossible.

Jack scanned his face. Jack's hand tightened on his shoulder, shook gently. "Same rules, Daniel," Jack said. "Whatever you need."

Daniel rolled to his back and put his hands over his face. "God, Jack. This is crazy."

"Yeah, I guess that's one word for it." Jack sounded thoughtful, a little dry, a faint hint of buried amusement.

Daniel was going to back out, even though that was ludicrous, at this stage, but he simply had to. He should back out of this deal, change his mind, even though he was already naked in Jack's bed -- _naked in Jack's bed_ \-- even though he'd already given it all up, admitted everything, given up, let Jack in, literally, figuratively, physically, sexually, emotionally, any-ly you care to name. Too late. Too late to back out, back down, escape...

"God," Daniel blurted, a syllable torn involuntarily from his throat, because while he was lying there ruminating Jack had leaned down and sucked Daniel's cock into his mouth.

_ How can you--_

You can't--

You can't really know how to--

...God.

Thought fled. Mostly. Thought fought with sensation.

Red, wet, warmth. He was sinking, sinking into it.

This was impossible, as impossible as Jack leaning toward him in his own cluttered living room, saying _"Or you could start getting it from me instead."_ He could still hear those words. They'd echoed in his mind for days. He woke in the morning hearing them.

Jack's cropped, bristly hair, yielding under his palms and fingertips. Soft and soothing under his restless hands.

_Jack... Jack..._

Thought lost the battle. Mostly.

Jack's hot muscular mouth, shaping around him. Jack's tongue, teasing and dancing.

"God," Daniel said, hips stuttering and jerking up, the head of his cock touching the softness at the back of Jack's throat. "Jack!"

Too strange. So good, so very good. And so very strange.

"Jack... Jack, you don't do this... How can you.... You don't-- God!"

_You're thinking too much_, is what Jack would say to him. If his mouth wasn't occupied with sucking Daniel's cock.

"Jack!"

And Jack slid off him in a noisy embarrassing slurp, and hitched up. Jack pressed his wet, swollen lips against Daniel's cheekbone, laid his warm arm over Daniel's chest, brought his hips in, showing Daniel he was hard. He let his knee slid over Daniel's thigh, and Daniel twitched and flinched and didn't turn his head away by sheer willpower. Light from the hall carved into the shadows on the ceiling.

Jack's voice was soft and calm. "Whatever you need, Daniel. That's still the deal."

Daniel lay there, tense and panting, his face red again in the darkness. The silence stretched out. Jack was waiting.

What Jack was offering, had offered. He should say it was impossible, too risky. He should back out. He should--

Jack was sliding away. He was getting up, going to the dresser across the room, opening the drawer. When he turned again toward the bed, Daniel suppressed an urge to put his hand over his drooping cock, or, worse, to hide by rolling to his stomach, or curling up. He lay there, stiff.

Jack was right there by the bed, between Daniel and the door, so outright bolting was clearly not really an option. He had something in his hands. Daniel did, by reflex, cover his dick, his hand moving by itself, but he was straining against his astigmatism and the dark, trying to see.

"Look," Jack said. "Just say so if this is a bad idea, but I think you're way overthinking this whole thing, and I have an idea that might help."

Daniel frowned and sat up, his erection seriously wilting. Jack put something on the bed, and began twisting something between his hands, fiddling, turning. Daniel frowned. Jack had a bandanna, a dark blue, paisley covered bandanna. And he was folding it into a ....

"My idea is... This." Jack put the long strip he'd made of the scarf on the bed and picked up the second one, folding and turning it.

"You want to tie me up."

"I think you need to let go. This would let you. Let go."

Daniel breathed, consciously, long and gusty. He couldn't take his eyes off Jack's hands.

"Why not," he said, making it a statement, not a question.

This was not the way it went. He didn't give up, not control, not the power to direct his sex life, his encounters, this was not the way it went. Ever.

He lay down again, lay there and waited for Jack, one hand over his dick, which had gone hard again, lifting itself off his stomach, hard and leaking now, mind of its own.

Jack took one careful breath, out and in, and then settled his face into neutrality and, watching Daniel's face the whole time, took one of Daniel's wrists, and then the other, and tied the soft cotton around them, and then gently pulled Daniel's arms over his head. Daniel lay there and... let him.

At some point he closed his eyes.

He hadn't really surrendered before, when Jack had fucked him at Daniel's place. That night, blind-sided by Jack's discovery of his sexual habits, he'd given in -- to his fantasies, to his shame, had yielded under the onslaught of Jack's impossible overture, had done the one thing he'd thought he'd never get the chance to do. But he hadn't surrendered. He'd experimented, he'd acquiesced, he'd let himself be fucked, for the first time, by the only person he ever wanted to do that to him.

But this...

There was a lot of play in the bandannas, and in whatever Jack had used (a belt? a third bandanna? Daniel's eyes were closed) to secure each hand. Daniel, experimentally flexing his forearm muscles and moving his arms, was definitely leashed, but not tied down. Restrained, but not constrained. There was a good foot or more of play between his wrists and the headboard.

"Can I turn over?" he asked Jack. His voice sounded surprisingly neutral, surprisingly disconnected.

"Yeah," Jack said, and Daniel could feel the surprise under that single, calm syllable.

So he did. He rolled in place, letting his arms stretch out, flexing his wrists, his hands, of course, up over his head. His feet hung off the end of Jack's bed. Eyes still closed, he drew a knee up, relishing the stretch in his groin muscle, noticing the cool touch of the air on his ass, feeling the exposure.

"Pitching again, am I?" Jack said.

Daniel said nothing. He might have writhed, though. Just a little.

He lay there, eyes closed, though that hadn't been part of Jack's plan. Jack hadn't seen any need to give him a blindfold. His arms were a little uncomfortable. He had no pillow; his face was turned to one side. He waited. He could hear Jack moving around the room.

His hiked-out knee meant he wasn't lying on his extremely hard dick. He hoped Jack knew he was hard. Jack, of course, had been right. Just get Daniel to stop thinking, stop trying to worry about what was happening, and everything would fall into place.

Again.

_"Door Number One it is...."_

He couldn't, wouldn't fight this. This deal, this proposal. This new thing. Whether Jack had planned that, known that, along with his suspicion about how to make Daniel able to let go, or whether it was just an extra symbolic bonus, that's what Daniel was showing him now.

No, he wasn't going to say no to this. Any of it. He was in Jack's hands now.

The foot of the mattress dipped. Jack's palm was warm against his buttock. Daniel moaned.

Without preamble and without words, but with infinite care and a deliberate, calculatedly slow pace, two slick fingers touched his asshole, then slid in.

Daniel made an inarticulate, needy noise, and pushed and pulled. Ass toward Jack, fists and elbows trying futilely to pull toward his chest. It was nice, having something solid to work against. The headboard creaked. Daniel moaned again. Jack's fingers, so thick, so warm, twisted and probed, dragged across his prostate and pulled out. Daniel groaned as the fingertips circled gently, firmly, exploring the already-spasming muscles at the surface, skating over swollen, aroused skin. Daniel squeezed, his ass blooming open.

Jack's fingers slid into him again, pushing, stroking, dragging.

Daniel scrubbed his hot face against the sheet. "Jack," he moaned.

And Jack was setting warm damp hands at his hips, was pulling him up and back, until the pleasant stretch was singing in his hips, his shoulders, his lats.

And there was the blunt head of Jack's cock, familiar already -- velvet over iron, breaching him, splitting him, piercing him.

"God, Jack," Daniel cried, and then there was nothing -- just the warm slurry of friction and heat and pressure, and the overwhelming reality of Jack filling him, taking him.

Finally the warm squeezing assertion of Jack's hand pulled him into consciousness just enough to register that Jack was going to make him come, and he let Jack take him there, let Jack's touch, Jack's control, take him apart.

Jack must have climaxed inside him, must have allowed himself that release, just as he had before, but Daniel missed it, because Daniel was coming in a blinding avalanche of sensation, and then he was flopped against the mattress, panting, sweaty, a mess.

He was vaguely aware of Jack carefully pulling out, carefully managing the condom, and, just as before, not petting, not stroking, because Daniel hadn't changed the rules, had he? Daniel hadn't said he could take that, that that would be okay. And then Jack was freeing Daniel's hands, and letting them carefully fall to a comfortable spot, and then he was off the bed and walking away, walking to the bathroom. Daniel tucked in his elbows, feeling ungrounded, feeling at a loss, drifting and stunned.

Jack came back with a warm cloth and cleaned him up, and then Jack got into bed and pulled the covers over them both.

A new emotion, warmer than shame, quieter than arousal, poured along Daniel's skin everywhere Jack touched it.

^^^

It was very different, in the morning, since it was Jack's house -- darker, quieter, a different feel to the sheets. A lower ceiling. And it felt different in the bed, under the covers, because this time Jack had not put his boxers back on to sleep. When Daniel woke, Jack was pressed against his back, all warm skin, and Daniel knew Jack was awake and lying there quietly.

Daniel lay there for only a few moments. And this time Daniel slid away and out of bed without speaking, and gathered up his clothing, and he allowed himself one quick glance at the back of Jack's head before he crept to the kitchen, where he dressed. Then he let himself out, into the gray morning.

^^^

The offworld was routine, the debrief uneventful, and Teal'c and Sam smiled and filed out of the conference room, and Jack, looking distracted, was about to disappear back into his office when he turned around and said, "Daniel?"

Daniel was stacking his new photos of Ancient carvings back into his file folders. He looked up, and raised his eyebrows. It was hard to look right at Jack, these last couple of days at work. Hard to file away what he knew, now, about Jack's skin, Jack's mouth, and think only about translations and tactics and research. Not hard in a bad way, but still hard.

Jack said, "I'm going up to Minnesota this weekend. Flying myself. You interested in fishing?"

"Fishing," Daniel repeated, a little blankly.

Jack just stood there, looking pleasant, perhaps still a little distracted.

"Sure," Daniel said. "I guess I could try that."

"Great," Jack said, and turned away and went into his office and sat down at his desk. But he didn't immediately pick up a pen.

Daniel stacked his folders and picked them up and cradled them in the crook of his elbow. He picked up his coffee mug.

Three days and two nights, in a cabin out in the middle of nowhere. With Jack.

It was definitely the start of something. He just wasn't really sure what to call it. A smile was trying to form at the corners of his mouth as he left the briefing room and headed back up to his lab. He had translations to file away, and he'd definitely need a new pot of coffee for that.

end.


End file.
